Lesson Learned
by Aurelia Priscus
Summary: [V for Vendetta] Finch remembers. Warning: Movieverse, spoilers for the film


Finch remembered. 

It was the eve of the Chancellor's birthday, some years after it had become a national holiday, and while Mr. Sutler's behavior had grown increasingly reclusive the past couple of months a few of his personal assistants had gone ahead and arranged a party for him—close friends, whatever family he had left, and the party higher-ups, though by that point the three groups had become practically indistinguishable. Finch had marveled at the thick cardstock of the invitation, the sheer wasteful extravagance of the tissue tucked inside the envelope, which had no discernable purpose so far as he could tell. Dominic couldn't figure it out, either. Finch had turned the invitation over in his hands. The letters "R.S.V.P." were engraved in elegant script on the bottom.

Of course, it was just for show. When Sutler sent you an invitation, it was understood that you were going to attend, regardless of scheduling conflicts or, for that matter, personal preference. He'd had Dominic ring ahead to inform Sutler's people that the Chief Inspector would indeed be there, and Finch had leaned back in his chair and stared at the off-white card, currently propped against his computer monitor, wondering what administrative cock-up had got him on the guest list this time.

On the appointed day, Finch had brushed off one of his better suits, dug out the one tie that the Chancellor seemed to like and appeared at 6 P.M. sharp at the gates of Sutler's mansion. As he'd estimated, navigating the subsequent security measures took another twenty minutes, meaning that by the time he'd convinced Creedy's armed guards he wasn't a terrorist it was nearly 6:30 and he was pretty much on time.

Nearly five hours later, he'd not seen hide nor hair of the Chancellor and Lewis Prothero was on what must have been his eighth glass of wine. His face was flushed as red as the cabernet he'd been drinking. "I don't think you're listening to me, Finch," he said darkly, in an uncharacteristic mid-tirade pause.

"Hmm?" he managed, looking up. "Of course I am, old man. Everyone listens to you."

That seemed to satisfy him. Prothero settled back like a contented cat and picked up wherever he'd left off. Finch hadn't been paying attention. Out of the corner of his eye, he could make out Dascomb hesitating on the edge of the crowd, reluctant to get too close. Dascomb was always cleverer than people gave him credit.

"—but anyone who watches my show will know what I think about that."

Finch nodded knowingly, hoping he might be able to steer the conversation in a less volatile direction, but Prothero continued anyway.

"You know what they are? Ungrateful fucks, the lot of them. They should be prepared to kiss our skinny white asses we haven't bombed them into oblivion. Famine, Christ. Those damned darkies in their mud huts have been starving for thousands of years. Why's this one drought so important, anyway?"

"St. Mary's," Finch said under his breath.

Prothero finished the rest of his wine and, with an uncivilized swipe of the back of his hand, removed a couple of red droplets from the corner of his mouth. "You say something, Finch?"

"No," Finch said, looking away. "It's nothing."

Prothero shrugged and looked around, and Finch watched as he craned that thick, meaty neck of his to survey the crowd. He spotted Dascomb almost immediately—the look of distaste on the man's face was almost amusing—but after a couple of minutes Prothero huffed in disappointment, setting his empty glass down on one of the side tables.

Wordlessly, Finch moved it onto a coaster.

Prothero didn't seem to notice. "There was a boy," he offered, by way of explanation. "He had a tray of crabby things. You know, filo pastry, with this creamy, crabby—and little green onion bits." He gestured with his hands, as though knowing the size of this particular kind of finger food would somehow assist in future identification. "Finch, old boy. You're the detective, you couldn't find him for me, could you?

"Sure," he mumbled, and edged past Prothero towards the door. He slipped out into the hallway and didn't look back. Moving away from the bustle and the noise, he followed a familiar route through the accessible areas of the house until he found a door, already ajar. It didn't look like there was anyone inside.

The room was fashioned to look like a study; an eclectic mix of dusty, older books lined the shelves. There didn't seem to be any rhyme or reason to their distribution, Plato and Mosley mingling with accounts of the First American Civil War and slim volumes on the art of angling. Finch had little doubt that the Chancellor was well-read, but it seemed likely these texts were selected more for their appearance than their contents. The effect was, admittedly, impressive. There were times when Finch wondered if that many books had even survived the censors.

Walking over, he picked out one of the titles and started flipping through the pages. _Clothing for Moderns_ was, as it turned out, a sewing instruction guide nearly a hundred years old. He reached forward to put it back, but stopped.

Behind him, he heard laughter.

There were few available sanctuaries in the house, Finch knew from past experience, but the study was spacious and sufficiently off the usual party circuit that he wasn't generally disturbed. He turned around, surveying the room. There was a grand oak desk situated at the far end of the room and little else. A handful of strategically placed lamps didn't quite hold back the dark; the shadows seemed to take on a life of their own. It was only on closer inspection that he noticed the outline of two figures seated in the corner. One was a young man wearing a caterer's uniform, the other an older woman Finch recognized as the wife of one of Chancellor Sutler's inner circle. He must have stepped on a loose floorboard, because there was a squeak and her head snapped up. The color drained from her face before his eyes.

Finch waved it off and she relaxed, visibly relieved. "You," he said, pointing accusingly at the young man who was now rigid in his chair. "You the one with the crabby things?"

"Yes, sir," he stammered, scrambling for his tray. In his haste, he knocked a couple of pastries onto the rug and he quickly bent down to pick them up.

"Lewis Prothero is looking for you," Finch said, gesturing vaguely back the way he came. "He's in the main reception area. Loudest man in the room. You can't miss him."

"The Voice of London," the young man said, admiringly. His face visibly brightened. "Oh, of course I know who he is, sir."

"Of course you do," Finch said distantly, watching the waiter leave.

The woman—what was her name, Charlotte?—followed, setting her hand briefly on his arm as she passed. "Thank you," she said, gently. "I will put in a good word for you with my husband."

"Don't," Finch said, quietly. "He'll suspect something."

She nodded, and left.

With the others gone, Finch was finally alone. He went to return to the books, but even then he couldn't shake the feeling that there was something out of place. The room was empty, but it didn't _feel_ empty. Rather than welcome, the silence was suddenly menacing and oppressive. His mind wandered back to the comic books he'd read when he was a boy. _My spidey-sense is tingling…_

There was a creak in the shadows.

How he hated being right. "Mr. Creedy."

"Well done, Mr. Finch," said a frosty, self-satisfied voice in the dark. "Mr. Lilliman will be interested to know what goes on when the cat's away." Creedy stepped into view, watching Finch's expression with the faintest hint of sublimated glee. Finch knew that look, like he was little more than an insect pinned in place for Creedy's personal amusement. It made his skin crawl.

"Nothing happened," Finch said. "Leave it alone."

"To the contrary, Mr. Finch," Creedy said, coolly. "This party is supposed to be representative of all that is pure and good and right in this country, and its members are expect to hold to a higher standard. Don't you agree?"

"They were just talking," Finch said. "There's no crime in that."

Creedy smiled a little, like he was savoring the irony. "We cannot simply make excuses for degenerate behavior when it's convenient for us," he said. "What would the Chancellor say?"

"Sutler wouldn't care," Finch said. "The man has his own mistresses."

Creedy crossed to one of the arched bay windows and studied his reflection in the glass. "Then I see no reason not to tell him." He adjusted his tie, watching the reflection smugly as Finch's expression grew murderous. "You have no appreciation for what it is I do, do you?"

"Do you want me to answer that question, Mr. Creedy?" He chose his words carefully. He didn't have a choice.

"I suppose not, Chief Inspector. Not this time," Creedy said vaguely, turning around. "You _enjoy_ this martyrdom of the innocents routine, don't you? Eric Finch, champion of justice and truth and extra helpings of chicken pot pie. Suppose I were to tell you that I didn't come here to ruin a woman's life. What if I told you I retreated to this little sanctuary much like you did, as a well-deserved respite from the forced pleasantries and criminal banality of everyday conversation, and had my tranquility interrupted by two over-sexed, carousing young people?"

Finch watched him warily. "Is that true?"

"Would I lie to you?"

"Yes."

"You're getting cynical in your old age, Chief Inspector," Creedy said. He smiled, but there was no humor in it. "You are going to report to Mr. Sutler and inform him of Mrs. Lilliman's dalliances. If you do not, I will be forced to regrettably inform him of your complacency in an attempted cover-up, and given your previous affiliation with certain recently disgraced parties…"

"Creedy," Finch interjected. "You know I had nothing to do with that."

"You selected those men personally, didn't you?"

Finch bristled. "Yes, but I had no way of knowing… what they were."

"Spare me the excuses," Creedy said, dismissively. He glanced at his watch. "I don't know what's worse, knowingly allowing such degenerates to infiltrate our organization, or not knowing your own men. It's 11:53 P.M., we'll be expected in the reception area in a few minutes."

Finch moved to speak, but he stopped. Creedy watched him with all the detached interest of a boy tearing the wings off butterflies. "Are you going to say something, Chief Inspector?"

Finch stared at him in heavy, defeated silence.

"Don't be so glum," Creedy said, starting towards the door as Finch reluctantly followed. "Think of this as a favor. You give the Chancellor Mrs. Lilliman, it reaffirms your willingness to follow the party line and maybe it will convince him to overlook your other obvious weaknesses of character."

"You want me to hang her out to dry to save my own skin?"

"You have to," Creedy said with a cruel smile. "Or I'll destroy you. That's politics."

At 11:59 P.M., Chancellor Adam Sutler addressed the crowd packed into the main reception area to riotous applause. It was his 63rd birthday, and, while he appreciated the well-wishes and, most especially, the champagne, he had an important announcement to make. With extreme reluctance, issues of national security now required that he surrender his beloved home for a secret, more secure location. There were noises of protest from the crowd, but Sutler gestured for silence. He'd spoken with his strategists and it was for the best. Creedy was standing to one side, impassively watching the proceedings and, in that moment, Finch understood.

It was the last time he'd seen Chancellor Sutler in the flesh, at least until tonight. Finch bent over the corpse. He looked deceptively frail in death, for all the world like a harmless old man with his brains splattered against the pavement. There was a hole the size of a nickel in Sutler's forehead and his dead, clouded eyes were open, wide and pleading. There was a rose tucked into his jacket, but Finch didn't need a ballistics report to know who actually killed him.

"I count sixteen bodies," Finch said aloud, rising to his feet. He looked back over his shoulder at Evey Hammond, picking her way through the human wreckage, all bloody pools and butchered souls. "Are you sure you want to see this?"

"Yes," she said.

He nodded.

There was another body, slumped against the rusted iron gate of the abandoned tube station. Creedy wasn't bloody like the others. Instead, his head was lolled to one side like a doll whose strings had been cut and it was readily apparent his neck had been snapped. That required precision, proximity and time, and Finch couldn't help but take some satisfaction in the fact Creedy died last.

Fin.


End file.
